Noir
by JadedFaye
Summary: CHAPS 7,8,9 ADDED. The end is in sight. I have a plan! Mwahahah! The key to immortality lies in Allan Quartermain,who cannot die. But has a madman already destroyed his best shot at the hunter during a confrontation with an American Secret Service Agent?
1. Chapter 1

**NOIR**

by Jaded Faye

Standard Disclaimer applies. I dont own the characters I didnt create.

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** P r o l o g u e**

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Rain. 

Falling hard as the gravestones in a dark Paris Cemetary. Hard as the blow to his head, fierce and unforgiving.His skull cracked on impact, and Thomas Sawyer lost all consciouss sense of the world around him. The struggle was over. The victor stood over him smiling, the stormy night sky a backdrop in a horrible image the boy could not see.

In fact, that smile was the only visible feature belonging to the man. The scarred twisted flesh of his lips seemed only further demented by the expression, bearing a row of yellowing teeth. There was more cruelty than mirth to be felt by it. The rest of his body was hidden beneath a shining black armor, the fingers of his gauntlets extending into terrible claws. The mask he wore fit tight around his head, ending in a point at the base of his neck, the rest seemed perfectly molded to his face, as if his image were emerging from the armored shell.

Someone was approaching. A figure entirely in black, his suite was elegant, his shirt silk, and he carried an umbrella.

_" My Lordship."_

He bowed, low, and deliberate. His eyes settling upon the young secret service agent who was sprawled on the stone walkway of the cemetary.

_ "They sent a child to capture the devil?" _The servent queried, smiling as he straightened.

_ "They underestimate me. But soon, this world will know my power." _His master responded, turning away from the lifeless form on the ground.

_ "I wish to leave this place at once." _It was more of a command.

_"But of course." _

The rest of their conversation was lost in the rain. The body of Agent Sawyer was of no concern to either of the two men as they departed.


	2. Chapter 2

NOIR

by Jaded Faye

Deep Indigo sky and every star alight reaching from the African horizon into forever; it would have been to some the most beautiful thing they had ever seen. But Allan Quartermain had lived for longer than a man in his profession should and this sky was old to him. He had travelled all over the globe and seen so many things, temples, villages, and sunsets that seemed to have been created through some kind of magic spell, concocted from your wildest imagination and the breath that was suddenly absent in your throat as you witnessed it.

But none of these, or any of the fantastic things he viewed in all his daring travels had been as beautiful as that common and yet once in forever moment of a birth, the birth of his son, Harry.

With every sense a man posessed he witnessed it, with senses even he as a hunter didn't know he had. It had been incredible. Sometimes still, he dreamt about it. Sometimes still, he awoke in the dead of night and cried for hours. His son. His Harry. More precious than any treasure ever sought or discovered or dreamed of, and he had been so careless, and he had lost him...He had lost his little boy.

Bitterness quickly fills in the spaces of loss. And a loss of this size had left the great hunter full to the point of spilling over. He had isolated himself, had shunned any new aquaintanceships, had saved the world anyway, and had come to care for another young man so much like his son that he had died rather than experience such loss again.

Yes. Allan Quartermain had died. But not completely. The local witch-doctor had made a promise that even the great hunter, knowing full well of the existence of magic, had not believed he could keep, and yet he had kept it. Africa would not let him die...and yet sometimes, he wished it would.

And here he was, back in Africa where he had started, and some of that bitterness had given way for feelings he had thought barred forever. More so than that...he had allowed those feelings to come back. And deep in the innermost space of his heart, or whatever it was that truely allowed him to feel anything at all...he welcomed them.

He was eager to get back to the League. He felt a sense of responsiblity to them, and especially to their youngest member, who was so much like him. That was one of the reasons he _needed_ to get there soon. Sawyer would inevitibly blame himself, and that was something that Allan Quartermain could not allow the young man to do. Not when he had the power, as so many others did not, to return to that boy...to set things straight. The young secret service agent still had so much to learn...and He could do right by him, as he had failed to do with Harry. He was full aware of the connection. He did not care. Once he had become a father there was no going back. Harry would always be his son. Always. No one would ever replace him. But Thomas Sawyer held significant place in the old man's heart. He would not fail another son.


	3. Chapter 3

NOIR

by Jaded Faye

Paris was ugly to him. So was the rest of the pathetic world. There had been a time when things had been right. When the strong had seized power while the rest watched on, mouths hanging like the prisoners in the gallows; the ones who had dared to resist. Eyes widening to see, to take in that glorious display of power. And they would know who their new leader was. They would know, or they would die for the crimes of their ignorance. Then things had been right.

Now the world's leaders crawled on their hands and knees - insects! - afraid to be seen, as if ashamed of their power. But they were not ashamed.

They were afraid.

They attacked one another. Then they denied it before the accusations were even made.

Why!

Because those who were so much less than them, peasents, might be displeased. Suddenly a King was bound by the will of those who had been born to serve him. At once ruling over them and cowering at their feet. The people had power now. Rulers could be replaced. They grew weak as they grew older, and those that questioned their authority grew louder. They were mortal. They could be killed. They had reason to be afraid. No longer were they God's as the Pharoahs in Egypt had been, they were men. And men were weak.

Men died.

But not all men.

Allan Quartermain had gained great attention after saving the city of Venice from almost certain destruction with the help of a rather... interesting team. But he had been famous before that. He was the Great Hunter, and he had braved countless missions and adventures and yet still had come out alive. How? Could a man really be _that_ lucky?

He had heard rumors about the Brit's immortality...some had suspected it all along...but none had sought to prove it. And then, fate itself had done the job. Allan Quartermain, the Great Hunter, had in fact died of a fatal knife wound. _But he was not dead now._

No. Rumors had not been enough to go on, so he had sent someone to locate the Hunter's grave and prove a body remained. Indeed, when his man had arrived, there was a body freshly buried in the earth. And the following day, when this man was to return and report his findings...he had seen that body, fully animated...alive! The grave too was now empty, the likeness was impossible. It _was_ the same man. Of course he had immediatly flown to Africa to see for himself.

Sure enough...Allan Quartermain had been sitting in a chair across the room from him. The building itself was new, apparently rebuilt after some accident or tragedy with which he had not been at all concerned.

How!

That was all that mattered, was all he thought about now. _HOW!_ It plagued him.

He had very nearly walked right up to the immortal and demanded answers. But that would have been unwise. He was clearly the weaker. This man could crush him, but could not himself be killed. He needed to be careful, needed to use whatever he had to win this. The secret to such power would not be given over willingly. Not from a man of legend, not from one so self-righteous as The Great Hunter. And what power it was!

Allan Quartermain could not die!

...But others could...

And that thought had occured to him as blindlingly and brilliantly as a flash in the dark.

Of course!

And the plan was set.The man had isolated himself for years, but surely such straining conditions as the one's he'd face in Venice had forged some meaningful bonds. So it was only reasonable to start with that strange group he'd been working with. Now he just needed to figure out _who? _Who amoung them was the old man closest to?

Who?


	4. Chapter 4

**NOIR**

by Jaded Faye

_Thank you so much for all the kind reviews. I very much appreciate it. :) I am now completely vain, but luckily my ego wont be able to fit into these tiny chapters. I hope I can finish this as well as it seems to have started. Thanx! _

Faye

Is there any way to indent? Mine seem to get erased?

* * *

That moment can never be accurately described. 

The London streets slick and gleaming in the starlight, air thick with rain and dark. Silohettes of persons appeared as pieces of shadow that had broken away and now moved on their own. Was it dreary was it foreboding was it beautiful or magical? Did the city shimmer under the soft moon, or glow with as if some line had been crossed between where they had been standing and the netherworld?

Perspective.

Was it a miracle of mercy or the darkest of magics tapped for use in unnatural purpose? Who could say? But they all had their thoughts, even Edward Hyde, who was arguably only half a man had his own view of what transpired.

Tick, tick , tick. And the pocket watch snapped shut in the good Doctors hand, only to be opened again seconds later...tick tick-snap- and shut again.

It was the slightest feminine gasp that roused the others to attention. Mina Harker's unnaturally keen senses detected the presence first. A mere moment before Hyde smelled him.

One more shadow had broken off into the night and was approaching the rest. The outline of a long jacket, and hat lined here and there by the glow of whatever light reached the figure.

They were all on guard, alert. More prepared to fight - even in spite of all they'd seen, experienced, and learned - than to accept something that seemed far to good to be true. But in a low growl that manifested itself first in Henry Jeckyll's mind and then escaped his lips as barely more than a weak whisper they recieved a confirmation.

"It's him. I can smell it. It's him."

Subtle, simple words that called forth more raucous emotion in each of them than any one was willing to admit. Somewhere deep inside the good doctor Edward Hyde was feeling rather smug...and despite himself...pleased.

"Me too."

Mina spoke low and soft, as if the conversation were to be kept private.

The figure drew near, finally near enough to make out the features, the face, weather like old wood, and so damned beautiful that Rodney Skinner had to hold back from crying.

"Hello."

There was nothing Allan Quartermain could have said that would have been appropriate to the situation. He had been dead. They had buried him. After Recieving his letter they'd surely believed it a cruel trick, a trap of some sort.

"YOU BLOODY OLD BASTARD!" And suddenly the old man stumbled sideways very nearly losing his balance under the surprise of an invisible force barreling into him. "WE MISSED YOU BLOKE!"

Skinner was laughing and crying at once but he had never been one to care when making a spectacle of himself which...even being invisible...he did more so than anyone those in the league and those that had known him ever encountered.

"You Damned fool get OFF ME!" Quartermain roared to no avail.

Jeckyll snicked and then doubled over with, crashing to his knees in the dark, the booming laugh of Hyde burst from deep inside the meager looking man. It subsided before there was any time for panic or thought on the matter, and suddenly Jeckyll was standing straight and brushing off the front of his pants, polite and unimposing as ever.

Nemo extended his hand, and said with more meaning than could have been conveyed by any number of words:

_"It is Good to have you with us a again Mr. Quartermain."_


	5. Chapter 5

NOIR

by Jaded Faye

Cracking thunder cracking his skull all over again. He could have sworn it. When he'd come to the stone was cold-wet slick, and the storm was at it's peak. For a split second as he struggled to raise himself on broken limbs he thought he was staring into the face of his own grave-stone.

**THOMAS **

The name etched deep into the rock. But it was a surname, a last name...and this was not his last anything so help him God. But God had done his part in the boy waking up at all, and even through the pain of cracked bone and torn skin the boy felt he should grateful for even that. The world was in fog blurring in and out through the rain. He stumbled as he used the nearby stone, the one that bore his own name and someone elses, to stand on badly trembling legs.

_"THOMAS!"_

The voice barely cut through the downpour, barely reached his clouded comprehension. But whether he registered that it was his name or just a random sound the agent turned, fast as he could manage it, and saw what at first seemed a ghost moving amongst the rows of stones marking it's fellow dead.

Cracking thunder for a second time opening that canyon in his skull and he winced, his whole body moving with the effort of dodging the pain of the invisible blow. He couldn't really see the person coming toward him. Should he try to run? No, too suspicious, and he'd not get far if the person decided to chase. It may just be a concerned civillian, better he take his chances, try to cover for himself, for all they knew he could have been mugged, he'd keep silent, not give away where he was from.

And if it was one of Noir's men?

Well he'd have a better shot trying to fight them off where he stood than turning his back on them and either being gunned down or caught instantly. If he were killed? Well there was a grave laid out right here for him, it almost seemed appropriate. Maybe Mr. Thomas wouldn't mind sharing.

How odd...he hadn't thought it before. An english name... but he was in paris? He'd only just...

the world was falling with the rain, the figure was getting closer, he was falling, everything...


	6. Chapter 6

Noir

Jaded Faye

Thomas Sawyer never touched the ground a second time.

His ragged body hung in the air as if being raised from the grave by which he stood. An invisible man, a living ghost was holding him up while another ghost, this one clearly visible, this one having truly died, made his way toward them in this beautiful city's lot for the dead.

Allan was running as soon as the boy was falling. His eyes barely seeing through rush of water, hearing nothing but the thunder hat seemed to echo his own heartbeat, and feeling nothing but the fear that he had somehow arrived late. Terribly late. He reached them mere seconds after the young man had first faltered. "Skinner!" he was swallowing water as he shouted. "What's happened to him!" He was taking over, seizing the abused body of the young agent from invisible arms.

"We can't have him floating through the streets." He later explained.

Now he was crouching resting Sawyer against his chest, weathered old hand, more abused by time than even this boy touching the spectar-white cheek, where the color red seemed to have sliced into the flesh. " Come back lad!" He urged instinctively wanting to shake him but knowing better, just by looking at him.


	7. Chapter 7

NOIR

by JadedFaye

EARLIER

Poverty smelled of alcohol on the withered looking parisian man. He was in his forties, missing most of his teeth, and he'd been wearing the same set of clothes for days. There was however...one new addition.

"WHERE IS HE?"

Allan slammed the disheveled figure into the stone wall of the alley. A storm of words, all in french, rushed from the stranger's mouth. Allan understood French well enough to know that what the man was saying. It was neither pleasent, nor helpful. "Mr. Quartermain, calm yourself! He can't understood a word you're saying!" Mina hissed. Allan glared at her. "Perhaps then Ms. Harker, YOU would prefer to interrogate our friend. And you could CALMLY ask him WHERE he got his new coat... or from WHOM!"

His grip on the man released, the stranger crumpled to the ground.

"Why don't I try to reason with him. I know a little french." Dr. Jekyll's nervous voice floated quietly into the conversation. He had surmised by the exhanging glares between Quartermain and Ms. Harker that neither would accomplish their task very quickly. Jekyll extended his hand, and helped the now confused man to his feet. His fingers felt like gravel in the doctors grip, and it struck him full of sadness and pity for the nameless fellow who just happened to be wearing his friend's coat.

Still pressed against the wall of the alley, the stranger surveyed the small group that had gathered around him. His eyes were wide, afraid, uncertain, and untrusting. Dr. Jekyll cleared his throat. And began to speak slowly, timidly in french. The stranger responded animatedly. The Doctor's eyes were downcast, he nodded, hand to his chin. He spoke more urgently this time, pressing the man. This time the response grew even more animated, and the stranger, frustrated, pushed the doctor. His eyes revealed that he knew this was a mistake, but there were mere seconds between that moment and the reaction of the Doctor who seized him and in a bellowing voice, not his own screamed at the man "WHERE IS HE!"

It was the voice of Edward Hyde.


	8. Chapter 8

NOIR

JadedFaye

Daylight peels off the horizon, and the insides of Paris are revealed to be dark. An old Hunter is neither surprised nor concerned. His eyes see better in the dark in nowadays; perhaps he's too accustomed to it.

A faint pulse beneath the skin is not something the Great Hunter recognizes as life. Not in the young man laying before him. Skin ash white, close to the color of slick stone, carved with the young man's name, marking the place where he fell - where he almost fell. The storm seemed to wash away the boy's life before Allan's very eyes. That bold audacity, to stand in the face of your own mortality. Was that the very last of the living-Thomas Sawyer that the world would ever see? That strength seeping out of him, swept away in the rain, abandoning the boy when he needed it most.

Quartermain had seen many last stands in his time. He had faced his own more than once. This could not be it for the young agent. Not this, not now. Not when he was so close. Not again. He had learned from his failures. Had gone as far as death and back, just to learn. He would not fall victim to the same foolish mistake that killed him the first time, he would not fall victim to same foolish life that killed his son the last.

And this boy, was very much a son to Allan.


	9. Chapter 9

Tick tick tick. Time never stopped. Never one moment's rest. Always fighting, every second.

Dr. Henry Jekyll never slept anymore. His nightmares had come to life, and he feared to take their place in the subconciouss, lost beneath a surface that paraded as someone else. Or perhaps...just as some other part of himself.

This was the damned life of Edward Hyde. Forced to spend his days trapsing about as an amiable man. A man who cared for anything, and everything other than himself. A doctor. A sickly saint. Or so he seemed. But Hyde knew the truth. Hyde WAS the truth. The long surpressed urges deemed to selfish to be revealed to the world. His bitterness was as real as Jekylls kindness. And neither could be denied.

Tick tick tick.

Another heartbeat, faster, stronger than his own.

Tick tick tick.

How long could he carry on this way?

Tick tick tick.

How long woud he have to?

Tick tick tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.

How long before the masquerade ended for both of them? The conscience that was Henry Jekyll would never allow this man to fully succumb to the urgings of Edward Hyde. The undeniable needs, and powerful desires of Edward Hyde, would never allow this man to forget their presence, or to live in peace without them. Perhaps he would never allow him to live at all.

Tick tick tick.

"My Friend."

Nemo's steady, voice, which the doctor had long suspected to be the only source of stability on the ship. interuppted his thoughts.

"A word?"

How else could he respond? Henry Jekyll had never known how to deny anyone, anything.

"Of course."

Tick.

The watch snapped shut. But still time did not stop.


End file.
